


I Know You Want to Try It, so Go and Dive In

by fracturedvaels



Series: there's no patron saint of silent restraint [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not exactly what Cullen had in mind when he spoke to Samson during the former general's trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know You Want to Try It, so Go and Dive In

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the crosses song "[Prurient](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpjqvpmzJBY)". Beta'd by Lizstiel.

This was not exactly what Cullen had in mind when he spoke to Samson during the former general's trial.  
  
And he wants to say this. Really, he does. He wants to push Samson away, pull his pants back on, go very far away. But Samson presses kisses to his thighs and his pelvis and it's so nice to be touched. Maker damn him, he has no resolve.  
  
Cullen tries to detach himself, justify the situation. He imagines himself an outsider, lays the scene out: he's lying on his back on his bed, one arm under his pillow and the other wound up in the blanket. Samson between his legs with his head bobbing up and down slowly, his arms around Cullen's thighs to keep his legs parted. He wagers he looks absolutely ridiculous lying there, naked from the waist down with a political prisoner between his legs.  
  
Samson runs his tongue up the length of Cullen's hard cock, swirls his tongue around the tip and then goes down again. It makes Cullen hiss and his hips press down against the bed involuntarily. The hum of Samson's laugh chilled the commander to the bone.  
  
"You're twitchy," Samson says, breathless, when he finally comes up. As he makes his way up Cullen's body he pushes up the tunic to reveal his partner's stomach and leaves a trail of kisses that all feel like a hot ember pressed into his flesh. By the time Samson is sitting between his splayed legs Cullen feels like he's going to crack open. With a devious smirk, Samson hooks a finger into the edge of the tunic and pulls it back down to cover Cullen's close-to-heaving chest. "Let's preserve some of that famous modesty, sweetheart."  
  
Cullen wants to laugh, but fear and excitement keep him choked up. A large part of him - an _exceptionally_ large part of him - wants to push Samson away, for his own sake and sanity, but through force of will he keeps his hands from going to the Templar's throat or balling into a fist to slam into his face. When Samson leans down to steal a kiss he's pliant; his eyes flutter shut like he's some dainty, chaste maid and it earns him a mocking laugh and the press of lips to his closed eyelids.  
  
Cullen's perfectly willing to let Samson do everything. He's doing enough himself just by _letting_ this happen, when he should've rightfully put a dagger in his former friend's gut.  
  
 _It could be worse_ , he reminds himself bitterly as he keeps his eyes closed. As Samson settles between his legs, he recalls a very distant memory: a recruit his age, a few nights before his 18th birthday, holding his hand and whispering _just lie back and think of home_. The other recruit was trying to be comforting and humorous and while their hands were clumsy and bodies trembling throughout it all, it had helped. It was helping now.  
  
In better company Cullen might've laughed; as it were, he buries it in himself. It's warm, and trickles through his bones and keeps him relaxed when Samson finally enters him. Samson, meanwhile, puts his hands on Cullen's hips and runs them down his thighs to his knees, urging the other man to wrap them around his waist. Cullen complies - and moves one of his hands, to put it on one of Samson's shoulders. This was partially to give it something to do and, of course, partially to pretend he could push Samson away if he wanted to. Not that he would, and not that he _could_ , but the ruse keeps him from freaking out.  
  
Cullen opens his eyes when Samson's hips begin to move. He's surprised - not that he knows why - to see Samson staring back. Cullen involuntarily takes note of his sallow complexion, caved in cheeks, dark eyes. He winces and tries to turn away, but the snarl that forms on Samson's face catches him off guard. The other man leans down so quickly Cullen's hold on his shoulder slips, and instead he hooks his arm around Samson's neck while baring his own throat to the man's teeth. He would never admit it, but he's uncharacteristically delighted when one of Samson's hand finds his still tangled in the blanket and pulls it free, twines their fingers together.  
  
Samson peppers kisses up the side of Cullen's face, on his neck and behind his ear. Cullen's skin tingles when those hot lips are pressed against the side of his head, when a voice muddied by the years growls, "You're so _easy_ to get _on_ with."  
  
The real meaning isn't lost on Cullen.  
  
Cullen lets out a squeak followed by a sudden inhale. The hand not holding his moves up his thigh, leaving scratches in the flesh as it goes along and then settles next to Cullen's head. Several rough and sudden thrusts follow; Cullen's voice raises in volume with each and his breathing becomes harsher. When Samson suddenly stops, takes a moment to catch his breath, Cullen feels oddly bold and moves both hands to the back of Samson's neck. He pulls the other man's head down to his and kisses him while rolling his own hips a few times - Samson's appreciative grunts encourage him along as he does so. When the other man's hands finally lay palm-down on the bed beside Cullen's head and he takes back control over the situation his thrusts are harsher, harder, leaving it feeling like they're in a strange competition.  
  
A small victory, one Cullen gladly accepts. For all Samson's teasing and touching, for a moment he lost control and exposed a weakness. It doesn't matter that when he takes back over that it feels like he's treating Cullen less like a partner and more like a _tool_ , or that, to his disgust, Cullen finds he _likes_ it that way. Samson has crafted an image: _**I'm** in control, **I** take the lead_. He doesn't like being out done. He never has.  
  
Cullen thinks that, perhaps, some of the Inquisitor's lack of self-preservation is rubbing off on him, because in a brash stupidity he _laughs_ , he rakes his hands down Samson's back when the startled man jerks away from him, opens his eyes and turns his head. He catches Samson's eye and says, "You can't _stand_ not _coming_ out on _top_ , can you?"  
  
As soon as the words have left his mouth, Samson hits him - an open palm slap that leaves the commander's head ringing and his face stinging. He follows this up with a backhand to the opposite side of Cullen's face, then wraps his fingers around Cullen's neck. The grip isn't tight enough to cause him to choke or even to cause him discomfort, just tight enough that when he swallows or breaths or _moans_ he can feel it. It's a collar, a mark of ownership. Cullen is pleased with himself.  
  
Samson leans back down, nose to nose with the blond. " **Someone** has to stay on top of you, whore." He shoots back, voice heavy with revulsion. "Last I checked, that made _me_ a leader - "  
  
Cullen cuts him off with a kiss. He's not at all surprised to find Samson returns it nor is he surprised to find Samson's grip on his throat tightening when he pulls away. He _definitely_ did not like being undermined.  
  
"You're weak." Cullen puts his hands on Samson's wrist as the other talks. "Give you a little power, a little position - just a _little_ \- and you _crumble_. You need a stern hand, commander." Samson takes one of Cullen's wrists in hand and pins it on the bed beside his head. The hold is tighter than the one he has on Cullen's neck.  
  
"You do much better, here. On your back, a _decent_ man between your legs." Cullen manages a laugh in response and is met with a choking hold. "You're so soft. **Too** soft. Too weak. You don't know the meaning of control, because if you had any, you wouldn't have let me into your room. Into **you**."  
  
Samson's grip loosens. Cullen takes in one ragged breath after another, chest aching and heaving. The hand around his throat moves up a bit and the thumb caresses Cullen's lower lip as the _former_ leader of the Red Templars coos, "You'd have faired so much better working in the Rose than in the Gallows."  
  
"Where I'd still have ended up under you."  
  
Samson's voice softens, tone turning teasing. "Don't you always?"  
  
His thumb pushes its way into Cullen's mouth. The commander bites down on it, hard, but before he can laugh or savor the sound of Samson's pained hiss a fist connects with his nose. The same hand that had hit him clamps down over Cullen's mouth. "I tire of hearing you, if you aren't going to do anything useful," Samson digs his nails into the flesh of Cullen's cheeks and pushes head back to angle his chin up, and expose his throat once more.  
  
Cullen closes his eyes. Samson becomes clumsy and harsh; Cullen realizes he himself has gone from "uncomfortable" to "in a good deal of pain" by the time that Samson gives a ridiculous sounding yowl and collapses on him, spent. Cullen doesn't dare look until Samson lets out a chuckle and starts to remove his hand from the other man's mouth. "Just like I said. Just like I _knew_. Soft, like your pretty little cock."  
  
Cullen only grunts in reply. The pain lessens when Samson pulls out of him; once he's free he contemplates rolling over or getting up. Deciding it isn't worth the trouble, he waits till _Samson_ decides to get up himself before sitting up on his elbows and saying, "Your escort back to your cell should be here any minute now. _Do_ be a dear and at least tie your pants fully."  
  
Samson lets out a terrifying, barking laugh, but he complies. Once he's dressed he climbs back into Cullen's bed and pushes his former friend down. Samson cups his cheek and returns his thumb to the commander's lower lip, confident that he won't bite him again. "I do hope we can meet up again soon." He leans in close with each word, till their mouths are so close Cullen can feel them nearly touching. "I quite enjoy having such a lovely doll to play with."  
  
Samson kisses Cullen before the blond can groan in disgust or push him away, then slips off the bed and heads to the ladder. Cullen waits until he's descended to roll over onto his side and gather his blankets around himself. Despite what little he'd gleaned about Samson's newer, brasher personality, their meeting had left him feeling quite unfulfilled; maybe a nap would help.


End file.
